Ramses Husknummer the 7000,86543rd, an astrologer/numerologist/wood monk friend of mine, called to borrow a demi-tasse of cocktail umbrellas decorated with downloaded and miniaturized America's Most Wanted mugshots, henna-filigreed silverskin onions, ambergris stuffed olives marinated in athletes' negatively tested samples, flageolet bean kernals in quicksand and green glace cherries soaked in tug bilgewasser for the daiquiris he knew he'd have to prepare for a brace of gorgeous gas salesmen due to persuade him over to a new provider whose prices were so low ground beetles had taken up residence there. He'd had his scalp buffed and was wearing a Milan Catwalk head pinafore with ironic panscrub ear sporrans and caustic oven cleaner lace gills in cherise pandemic whorethread with third world fairtrade blisters sewn on instead of the more chummy ping pong sequins. 'Tra la la' Ramses muttered as he leaned over my calamander scrimshaw leaving his breath tarnishing its antique veneer, 'kerplunk is not the sound I shall be making,' he continued, his breath now vapourtrailing a swarm of gnats that had entered through my louvered French windows like the love-interest gal in tennis whites in a French farce, one ankle in a fey riposte against the other, her sweet plimsoles swiveling like a ketch caught in a whirlpool. ‘I shall have found L’amoure vrai or I shall be bag-bratticed and away with the goshawks in their singly-jingly jesses and on a diet of ripped mice.' Then he left, dragging the air out with him since he is naturally airsticky, leaving a vacuum that caused my room to fuse with my pet dwarf dingo who is now a walk-in-apartment so when he next needs the vets I will also have to take a realtor or estate agent along to check the vet doesn't cause any structural damage, or undertake a treatment that voids my house insurance. Strange how things can change in a couple of minutes.

The overall and the underlying of tone throughout and all around this piece lifts it onto a completely different level. The irony is so faultless, the humour: the quirky, the straight-face, the downright, is so confident that the whole piece works as a whole piece.

If the days of Punch-at-its-best were still here they would welcome such a piece in open arms, whilst laying out good money with auxiliary appendages.
I may, in some squint, be seen as an appendage of the mmmmCasimir franchise, but in some circumstances I can hold my own, and this is one of them. I knows what I likes, and this is a particularly fine example of such!

I ploughed through this poem as if I was in a trough of treacle and enjoyed the experience. Though I did have to repeat the exercise a few times as my brain got into gear and my smile expanded into a great big grin.
So I will now have a lie down to recover.
Moxy a brilliant piece,loved it.

The Ramses dynasty has always been discerning. The transition from Ramses the Great to Ramses the Grater has clearly been a triumphant one. If only my woodmonk associates were as intriguing and accomplished.

What fascinates me is the title. IT. Incantation Trumpology I suppose.

Ah well. Just go and brush up on my fregyptais. Boing, Boing n'est ce pas.

B Brush

Thank you Ricardo -- and Val, ever so glad you came through the treacle with a big grin! Thank you, too, Malpoet -- Ramses and his Woodmonks will be playing an up-tempo version of L'Air du Temps in a mummified copse near you. They are the original spice girls.

Oh, and the title was short for: Itinerant Terminus. Ha hahahahah!

All the cops round here are mummified. I'm daddified.

Interminable Twit

I'm personified. Instant Tautology.

IT or supper?
Dinner or Tea?
Dadaists personified
And I don’t mean me.

Moxy’s as mocks does
And Malc Saunders in;
IT in ‘er rant to minors
The grater good shall win.

Mum, if I’d Dad defied,
We’d find you bathed in sandwiches
Interminably terminal,
Embarrassing appendages

IT or supper
Din? New rotis.
Dadda whispers on’ is side
Let’s all go home for tea.

Burble, burble...